Chapter 5 Tanner
TANNER
Thursday night trivia at the bar on College Ave had been my friend group’s thing since sophomore year, back when our study group discovered that beer and competitive knowledge-testing made problem sets slightly less soul-crushing.
I’d missed the last three weeks—holing up in the apartment, avoiding questions I didn’t want to answer—and I still wasn’t sure why I’d let Jake talk me into coming tonight.
Because you’ve been hiding, the honest part of my brain supplied. And hiding was starting to feel too comfortable.
We were three rounds in when I finally started to relax into the rhythm of it.
“Okay, science round. Question three: What is the only metal that is liquid at room temperature?”
I wrote down mercury before the host finished speaking. Muscle memory from too many years of academic competitions, where being fast was the only thing that made me useful.
“How do you just know that?” Jake asked, peering at my answer sheet.
“Useless talent.” I shrugged. “My brain hoards trivia instead of anything practical. Like social skills.”
Priya snorted. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“Question four,” the host announced. “In physics, what is the term for the minimum amount of fissile material needed to maintain a nuclear chain reaction?”
“Critical mass,” I murmured, writing it down.
“See, this is why we needed you back.” Dev gestured at me with his beer. “We’ve been hemorrhaging points in the science rounds.”
“You could just study.”
“Or we could guilt-trip you into showing up. Way less effort.”
I should’ve felt good about being wanted. Instead, the familiar guilt crept in—I’d been absent for weeks, let them down, and now they were acting like my presence was some kind of gift instead of the bare minimum of being a decent friend.
The host read off question five, something about atomic numbers that I answered on autopilot.
Around us, the bar hummed with the comfortable noise of a Thursday night—glasses clinking, conversations overlapping, the jukebox playing something country I’d normally hate but tonight found almost tolerable.
The place was far enough from the main campus drag that the crowd skewed toward grad students and locals rather than undergrads in team gear.
Old sports memorabilia covered the walls, but it felt more like history than worship.
I let myself sink into it. The normalcy. The easy rhythm of competition that didn’t matter, surrounded by people who knew me as “the quiet one who carries the science rounds” rather than “the guy whose dad died.”
“Break time,” the host announced. “Ten minutes before round four.”
Priya turned to face me with the expression that meant she was about to ask something I didn’t want to answer. I braced myself.
“So,” she said. “You going to tell us what’s been going on, or do we have to guess?”
“Nothing’s going on. I told you—things have been busy.”
“Bullshit.” She exchanged a look with Jake. “You missed three weeks, came back last week, seemed almost okay, and then ghosted again.”
It wasn’t complicated. Or it shouldn’t have been.
I just needed to focus on the capstone, finish the semester strong, and stop thinking about things that didn’t matter.
Like the fact that I’d woken up last week with my roommate’s arm around me and had felt, for one terrifying moment, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
“I’ve been swamped with the capstone,” I said, which was technically true. “I’m hitting the heavy analysis phase.”
“Right.” Jake leaned back in the booth. “The capstone that you were managing fine until two weeks ago.”
“We added more variables to the model. It’s been—”
“Tanner.” Priya’s voice was gentle, which was worse than skepticism. “You can tell us if something’s going on. You don’t have to handle everything alone.”
My face went hot. “I’m fine. Just stressed about deadlines.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced, but she let it drop. ”You know, it’s a shame that roommate of yours is straight. He’d be one hell of a stress reliever.”
I was saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance.
The door banged open. Laughter rolled in first, loud, unselfconscious, followed by a group of guys who filled the doorway shoulder to shoulder.
Conversations near the bar stuttered and died.
Heads turned. The crowd shifted without seeming to, opening a path through the room.
Football players. They moved like they’d never questioned whether they belonged anywhere, all easy swagger and expansive gestures.
One of them clapped another on the back hard enough that the sound carried across the bar.
Another was already scanning for empty tables, chin up, claiming territory with his eyes.
And there, in the middle of the group, was Seth.
Our eyes met across the bar.
For a second, everything else—the noise, the crowd, my friends’ voices—dropped away.
Seth’s face shifted through expressions too fast to catalog: surprise that I was here, something warm that made my stomach flip, then uncertainty as his gaze flicked to the people around me.
He said something to Marcus, gestured toward our booth.
Started making his way through the crowd.
My heart kicked against my ribs. I looked down at my answer sheet, at the word mercury in my own handwriting, and tried to remember how breathing worked.
This was not part of the plan. The plan was to spend one normal evening with my friends, prove to myself I could still function in the world, then go home and continue avoiding the conversation Seth and I needed to have.
The plan did not involve Seth walking toward me with his current expression, the one that made me feel transparent.
“Oh my god,” Priya said.
I didn’t look at her. “What?”
“You just—” She laughed, delighted. “Your entire face just changed.”
“It did not.”
“It absolutely did.” Jake leaned forward, following my line of sight. “Wait, which one?”
“Don’t—”
“The tall one,” Priya said. “Gray shirt. Jesus, Tanner.”
“It’s not— He’s just—”
“Your roommate,” Dev finished, grinning. “The one who’s been mentioned exactly twice, and both times you got weird about it.”
My face was on fire. “I don’t get weird.”
“You’re getting weird right now,” Priya said. “Oh my god, that’s him, isn’t it? Hot roommate?”
“He’s not—” I fumbled for words. “He’s just my roommate.”
“Just your roommate,” Jake repeated, watching Seth navigate between tables. “The one you’re currently staring at like he hung the stars.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re definitely staring.”
I forced myself to look at my beer instead. Condensation had pooled on the table around the base. I traced a finger through it, hyperaware of Seth getting closer, of my friends watching me with expressions that ranged from amused to concerned to absolutely gleeful.
“Breathe,” Priya said, gentler now. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—” I absolutely was. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, spreading across my face.
Which was ridiculous. He was just my roommate.
Just the person I’d been actively hiding from for four days because being near him made me feel things I wasn’t ready to examine.
Just the guy whose arms I’d woken up in last week, whose warmth I could still feel when I closed my eyes at night.
Just Seth.
Who was now close enough that I could hear his voice as he excused himself past another table, close enough that I had to look up or make it obvious I was avoiding him.
I looked up.
Seth reached our table. He was wearing jeans and a gray Henley that fit him well. An observation I filed away and immediately tried to forget.
“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Trivia night.” My voice came out relatively normal. Small victory. “It’s a thing.”
“I can see that.” He glanced at the others, and I forced myself to remember how social interactions worked.
“Seth, this is Priya, Jake, and Dev. Guys, this is Seth. My roommate.”
“The elusive roommate,” Priya said, and I contemplated the logistics of kicking her under the table without anyone noticing. “Tanner’s mentioned you.”
“Only in the context of eggs,” I said quickly. “And other normal roommate things.”
Seth’s mouth twitched. “Good to know I’m memorable for my cooking.”
“You should sit,” Priya offered, already scooting over to make room. “We’re about to start another round.”
Seth glanced back toward his teammates. Marcus was gesturing toward an empty high-top near the bar, mouthing something I couldn’t make out. Seth raised a hand—one second—then turned back to us.
“I don’t want to intrude—”
“You’re not intruding.” Jake was already flagging down a server. “Any friend of Tanner’s, et cetera. What are you drinking?”
Seth hesitated, weight shifting like he was about to decline. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, read something, and his jaw tightened slightly. When he looked up, his eyes found mine.
“Just a beer. Whatever’s on tap.” He glanced back toward his teammates. “I can stay for a few minutes, but I should get back to my friends.”
He slid into the booth beside me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something clean and woodsy that I’d started associating with the apartment feeling less empty. He set his phone face down on the table, but I caught another buzz, the screen lighting up briefly even though he ignored it.
I watched Seth get absorbed into the group, answering questions about his major and his position and how he’d ended up rooming with me.
He was good at this—the easy charm, the way he made people feel comfortable.
I’d noticed it before, the way he could talk to anyone about anything, filling silences I would have let stretch into awkwardness.